


Rogers & Banner

by AstaianNymph



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Not Superheroes, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, D/s, Dom/sub Play, Ice Play, M/M, Professional Dom, Sex Work, Spanking, Temperature Play, Wax, light whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 16:21:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstaianNymph/pseuds/AstaianNymph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Captain America serum didn't initially work. Steve Rogers finds himself dealing with a body that barely ages, the times and changes of the world, and ends up as a professional Dom. He never thought that road would lead to him dominating the one and only Tony Stark.</p>
<p>Written for <a href="http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/15292.html?thread=34230972#t34230972">this Avengers Kink Meme prompt</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [clintass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintass/gifts).



> The backstory for the prompt got away from me, kind of a lot, actually. The part of the story that solidly fills the prompt is chapter 5. But I think the whole thing is worth a read, anyway.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Captain America serum fails and Steve must adjust to his new life.

The Captain America project had been an abysmal failure. Steve had gone through the injections and the agony successfully, but he remained unchanged at the end of it. A Nazi spy broke into the facility and stole Erskine's formula and ran. Luckily, Peggy was able to shoot the man, but not before chaos had reigned and a stray bullet had hit the last of the formula. Steve didn't remember much of what happened. He mostly saw and heard glimpses of the doctors crowding around him, checking him over. In the end, they determined what the serum had done. It had slightly boosted his immune system and pain tolerance. His healing time didn't even improve to regular healthy times. An investigation had followed. The spy, now found out to be from Hydra, had tampered with the process of making the serum. But nobody could quite tell how to fix it or whether it would truly work once fixed.

Captain Rogers was honourably discharged with a doctor's note allowing him to work in a factory. Steve went about his life, but now instead of Bucky dragging him out every weekend, he looked forward to Bucky's letters detailing in not very much detail at all his grand experiences hunting down Hydra. Until one day, when no letter came. He paled as two servicemen approached his apartment door. It was then that Steve remembered, how had he managed to forget, that Bucky had listed him as his next of kin—brother by orphanage instead of blood. Bucky had valiantly died in the line of duty. He had sacrificed himself by crashing his plane in the frozen north Atlantic, doing a great service to his country. Steve waited for the men to hand him a flag folded into a triangle and leave to cry. He had to continue working until the war was over, he decided. After that, maybe he would end his string of bad luck.

But when the war was over, Steve noticed something remarkable—he had gained weight. Steve was shocked. It wasn't a lot of weight, but when he had overheard all the women in the factory discussing how they'd lost weight on the rations as he'd assumed was the case, he began to be curious. He saved up enough money to buy a scale after the war, continuing to work factory jobs. He weighed himself every week. There wasn't any noticeable difference from the previous week, but when he looked at his log of data, it added up. He was gaining a little under half a pound per week. After a few years, he realised he was slightly taller, maybe an inch or two, and was stronger. After another year, he realised he hadn't been sick since he'd been given the failed serum. Well, mostly failed. Supposedly. Steve wasn't sure he was ready to trust the new political situation, with fearmongering popping up about the Soviet Union. He didn't want himself tracked, so he quit his job and, though he didn't want to, moved away from New York. He travelled all the way across the country, hitch-hiking and walking, bringing only his scale, his sketchbook and pencils, his savings, and Bucky's flag.

He made his way to San Francisco eventually, quite a few fellow veterans on the way recommended the port for its support of GIs. He managed to find work at a bar, first washing dishes, then waiting tables, finally being a bartender. All the while, weighing and measuring himself. He kept up appearances by joining a gym, though he admitted that the changes were so gradual people mostly wouldn't notice. Still, he changed jobs after six years, when he'd grown another few inches and realised when he finished his latest self-portrait that he still looked 20, when he was now closer to 30. It was another few years before he changed jobs again. He'd had gotten cut pretty badly, and it had needed stitches. Two days later, he'd had to rip the stitches out because the cut had healed already. The increased healing was terrifying, and he was worried people would notice. And he was still growing, gaining weight, and getting stronger. Honestly, Steve was wondering if he'd ever stop or if he'd ever age. It was a frightening thought.

His next job was also at a bar but this bar was different. It was rather a secret bar, discreet. His boss from the first job he'd had in San Francisco had recommended it to some customers, and Steve decided he'd check it out. He almost missed the place. But he was hired no problem after he mentioned his former boss. The man had called him, they'd chatted, and Steve saw a smile gently unfurl on the man's face. Steve started that night. It was a very quiet place, compared to the other places he'd been to, both while working, and where Bucky had dragged him. It wasn't less busy, the clients were just quiet. And he found out why very quickly. This was a place where men got together with men. It was easy to miss sometimes, but the milling about, the exchange of looks, and the furtive kisses in dark corners were there and unashamed.

Steve didn't know how to think about this. The thoughts he'd had, especially about Bucky were played out here in this bar. These thoughts, which everyone had told him were wrong, sinful. He was incredibly happy that he found the place, but also terrified that something would go wrong. He had a long history of hiding his emotions & keeping his cool and alcohol no longer had any effect on him, and so he acted as if nothing was happening. He kept on pretending this for ages. He gained the friendship of the owner, the staff, and the regular patrons. He started hanging out there sometimes on his days off. The community was great. He managed to date a few men, during his first few years there, but nothing panned out.

Sometime in 1964, Steve Rogers stopped growing at 6 feet and 2 inches and 240 pounds. He looked to be a few years older now than before. Still, nobody was going to call him older than 23, even though he was now 42. One night he had a party for himself, with just a few friends. He told them it was just his birthday party, but in reality, he was celebrating the results of the serum. He could hardly believe this body that he now had was different from the tiny version of him from twenty years ago. After the party was over, he spent the night reflecting. He remembered Bucky, allowed himself to mourn him and the great times they had together. He mourned the man who had saved him many times and the boy who had died at age 18, much too young. He finally put the flag on a shelf featuring prominently in his living room. He put the past behind him and allowed himself to move on emotionally.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Steve becomes a professional Dom.

The next night, Steve let one of his newer friends from the bar to take him out to a 'sexier bar'. Steve had rolled his eyes at Jack at the time, but he'd be damned if he didn't actually want to meet someone and have sex. He'd waited long enough, after all. This bar was not as crammed with people as Steve had expected. The turnout was a bit higher than at the bar he worked at, but still nothing like the swing clubs Bucky had brought him to before he'd shipped off. The atmosphere here was also different. The people here were often dressed in tantalising leather. There was a back room where whips flew among other instruments he didn't recognise, and everyone was having the time of their life. Steve was back to blushing and a barely-controlled erection at the sight. Jack just laughed at him, and they mingled.

Steve came back to the club every night he could manage. It was great to become part of a community where he could actually express some darker desires he had never had thought could come to light. A few months in, and Steve made friends with a dominatrix, as she called herself, who was willing to show him the ropes of how to tie someone up and give them the pain they asked for. He trained with Betty for two years. At the end, she had hugged him and told him that with a little more practice, he could get even better than she was. In the end, he quit the bar so that he could work on practicing his skills. Instead of getting a job somewhere, Steve actually started to sell some of his artwork. The tourists always loved local drawings and paintings of local landmarks, and the people at the clubs always went for more mature paintings and drawings. It wasn't a lot of money, but it was enough to sustain him. He had a few relationships throughout the upcoming years, but nothing stuck again.

That wasn't the only thing that started to make his skin itch, though. The hippies were foreign to him. He understood what they stood for, and mostly agreed with them, but he couldn't take their philosophy all the way. None of the drugs they took had any effect on him. He felt rather left out. And the anti-war movement was infuriating sometimes. He was distinctly anti-war. He still didn't like bullies, and he couldn't believe that his country had become one. But that didn't invalidate the soldiers' lives. Being anti-war was fine by him, but blaming the soldiers and mistreating them was unacceptable. This feeling all came to a head when the mayor and Harvey Milk were assassinated. When, six months later, the murderer was only charged with manslaughter, Steve said his goodbyes, and moved back to New York.

Things were slightly better in New York. Things were also slightly worse. On the one hand, the streets felt less violent and unwelcoming. On the other hand, he looked barely a day older than 26 and there wasn't much work to be had. New York didn't need _another_ artist. The scene was fairly welcoming, but in a few short years, AIDS broke out, and it seemed like everyone was either super-cautious or dying. Everyone sobered up a lot, and Steve wasn't able to have the fun he once had in the nights of free sexualities in San Fran.

Steve was fairly lucky, however, that his preference for playing in the BDSM community was mainly non-sexual. Sure, he loved the sex part of it, but if it was too dangerous, and it was for most people, then he could manage with the other part. He didn't want to find out if his unnatural healing ability extended towards STDs, especially one as virulent as HIV. The non-sex scenes still made for great fantasies later in the night, though. He managed to convince himself that he didn't miss it that much.

After another few years of frustratingly being unable to find a long term play partner, Steve overheard a woman talking about how much different coming to a club was over hiring a professional. Maybe if money weren't so tight, Steve convinced himself, he wouldn't have liked the idea so much. But as it was, he needed the source of income. His mind raced with ideas, and he made a note to follow some of them up.

Starting up was not easy. He assumed it rarely was. He had a few false starts, people who backed out or wanted sex as well, and usually dangerous, unprotected sex at that. Eventually, though, he was dominating a woman who owned a small start-up second-hand boutique. She wanted to 'save herself' for marriage, but also needed the release. At first, he would just flog her and absolve her from her mistakes. Soon, though, they developed a routine where he would regulate small things about her, based on what they'd agreed on. He would mandate she wear certain colours on a certain day and tell her when she was allowed to masturbate or not. The pay was modest, but it was enough. She recommended him to someone else. This woman was the wife of a state congressman. Soon Steve was dominating the pair of them. The pay was still modest, but it was enough to live off of and to pay for his art. He'd expanded his art into photography. He was most interested in photographing subjects tied up in fancy ways. This required paying them, however, and he didn't have that much money yet. He had a good portfolio, though, built up over the years. And his job did pay well enough for him to buy and open a gallery.

His gallery was a small place in Brooklyn below his apartment. He would host a variety of up and coming artists. He tried to get a wide variety of perspectives. He tried to get veterans and old and young artists, African-American and Hispanic artists, gay and lesbian artists, and artists of different religions. He hosted anyone who could pay, and he charged low prices. The state congressman introduced him to a federal congressman and he was doing quite well. Steve happily was able to start a scholarship fund: $500 for a student from a low-income family to attend art school. He named the scholarship after Bucky. The flag, now 45 years old, still held a place of significance in his apartment and heart. He had made friends with people from the scene and also professionally. He was good friends with his clients so far. He was pretty happy with his life.

Still, in 1992, his rent went way up. His landlord raised the prices as the neighbourhood was becoming less working-class, more middle-class. He tried to figure out where to get the extra money from, but wasn't able to expand his client base yet. He realised he had plenty of room in his apartment for a roommate, so he put an ad in the paper. 

Steve had a hard time finding a suitable roommate. Everyone he interviewed failed in some way. He built in small tests, discussing major issues of the day. Many people would say something derogatory towards gay folks. Others would show themselves to be bullies. Still others would sympathise with the Green River Killer, making headlines in New York & Seattle, because his victims were prostitutes. That last class of people really bothered him the most. Other potential roommates turned him down because he worked nights (as a bartender, the story went). He was worried he'd have to shut the place down, when a young, ragged man entered the shop.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bruce runs into a lot of bad luck.

The Captain America initiative was a miserable failure. That's why, Bruce supposed, the US had passed SHA, the Super-Human Act of 1948, which prohibited any projects, public or private, which strove to imbue people or animals with superhuman capacity. That didn't explain why he was getting paid to recreate the Captain America serum. 

Bruce was incredibly smart. He graduated from Penn State with a Bachelor of Science Degree in Physics and a minor in biochemistry at age 18. He was very proud of himself for doing that. He wasn't sure he'd be able to manage. But anything was better than going back to live with his abusive father for months over the summer. So he'd graduated early. There were many companies who wanted to hire him right out of college. The most promising position was working with the military in a civilian position testing the effects of various phenomena on humans. This required good knowledge of biochemistry and physics. And they would pay for him to get a graduate degree after a few years.

This plan didn't work out. Instead, the army was having him work on something that was quite clearly in the realm of violating SHA. So he carefully documented the evidence toward what he was being asked to do and researched in depth the case law around SHA. When he was confident in his assessment, he brought all the material to an oversight organisation. Unluckily for him, the head of the oversight organisation was also his boss, General Ross. The man didn't take too kindly to Bruce trying to ruin him. So he fired Bruce and destroyed the evidence.

It turns out that Ross didn't just fire him, he completely blacklisted him. Bruce applied to nearly 50 labs, and none would hire him. He wasn't able to get a job anywhere. The fast food places told him he was too overqualified, and anywhere that needed a reference would be tainted by Ross's opinion. It was then he wished he had some more experience. So he started giving blowjobs on the street. New York was a place where he could do that. He quickly moved on from there the first time a dirty old man wanted to fuck his 'breakable young body'. Bruce was barely 19.

He'd thought he'd mind more than he did. Bruce somewhat had a penchant for finding the men and sometimes women who wanted really rough sex. So he started charging more for it. Some of his previous regulars weren't happy, but he would just avoid and evade them. He still had a decent customer base. After a few months, he had enough cash to pay for a room somewhere, if he could find a place. He wanted to get out of the drug dens, where a raid might always happen. He looked in the classifieds daily, checking out the addresses surreptitiously before deciding whether to meet them. Many addresses were too high end. The others had owners unwilling to share with such a run-down man who wanted to pay _cash _.__

__Bruce was getting low. He gave himself a week before he'd piss off a drug dealer or gangster. That would be the best suicide method. But he'd continue to look for a place and turn tricks at night in the interim._ _

__He found an ad for a place right near downtown Brooklyn. It was a smallish place, but the room would be sufficient for sleeping. It was a neighbourhood that was poor enough that he wouldn't stick out like a sore thumb. And it was over a gallery, which usually meant not too much noise during the day, as opposed to a café. Really, he couldn't think of a better place._ _

__Bruce ducked into the shop, heard the common tinkle of bells alerting the gorgeous man at the counter that someone was entering. The man at the counter seemed to be in his late 20s, tall, muscular, and blond with the cutest haircut. "Ah. Hi. I'm here to inquire about the room upstairs?" He held up the classified that he had ripped out of a paper._ _

__The man burst into a smile. "Welcome! I'm Steve. It's my room. Here, why don't you sit?" He pulled out a second stool from the counter and motioned to it._ _

__Bruce cautiously sat down, doing his best to give an encouraging smile. "Bruce. Nice to meet you." He held out his hand, which Steve shook. He listened intently as Steve went over the apartment, giving the prices he'd listed in the ad. Then Steve started talking about the news. Bruce was a bit shy and didn't talk much, but he did give his opinion occasionally, voicing that he agreed, he thought it was terrible the police hadn't caught the Green River Killer. No, he didn't terribly follow sports. He was fine with someone who worked nights, because he did as well. Bruce wasn't even scared to bring up paying in cash when that part of the conversation rolled around. Steve was gorgeous and personable, he had a feeling he'd end up saying yes to this place, even before he'd seen the room._ _

__Bruce signed a typewritten contract and took a copy, smiling as he handed over the cash and Steve wrote up a receipt for him. He went to get his stuff that afternoon. By evening, he had settled all three of his boxes in, and had to run out to get the tricks that liked a quickie at rush hour. The next few weeks went by in a rush. He fell into a comfortable routine with Steve, and the man was amazing. Bruce wanted to be so caring and kind and making a difference when he was older. Sure, Bruce was afraid to tell Steve what he did for a living. But other than that, he felt happier than he had in a long time. Maybe things would look up after all._ _


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Steve & Bruce meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This end of this chapter contains some of the run-up to what was prompted.

Steve was excited to have a new roommate. Bruce was a really nice guy. He was smart but also practical, and his shyness was adorable. And he worked nights so Steve’s schedule wouldn’t interfere. Steve really couldn’t ask for a better roommate. Bruce would slip into the apartment very quietly. They would cook and eat together. Steve wasn’t sure Bruce was eating enough. He looked half starved most of the time. He didn’t have very many things, but he managed to look good in everything he owned. When he wasn’t working, Steve often found him curled up with a book from the nearby library. That made Steve really pleased, as he loved books. He started to recommend books for Bruce and ask him what his favourites were. While the young man was resistant at first, he soon came around, talking animatedly about both science fiction and buddhist philosophy.

Still, Steve was worried that Bruce would find out about his work and hate him for it. Steve knew he would find it offensive and sick like so many journalists and police did. And Steve had to admit he had a bit of a crush on Bruce. The man had a lot of thoughts about the world and Steve wanted to hear them all. So every time Steve carried his briefcase filled with his BDSM toys and tools, he was nervous because who works nights and also needs a briefcase and to be dressed so professionally. His prepared explanation was that he was the manager of a night shift, but Bruce never poked or prodded or pried, looking for an answer.

 

Bruce might be in trouble. He'd recently picked up a new john. This one was less upright than his usual fare of clients were nowadays. He paid handsomely, though, so Bruce took the bone-battering fucking like he loved it, wishing all the while that he would pass out or black out. It was a pity that drinking on the job was dangerous. He wasn't the first client Bruce had had that was overly rough or demanding. It was more his attitude toward Bruce and Bruce's line of work that worried him. He didn't need the man's posturing and sneering. But money is money, and what else was Bruce gonna do? It's not like he could go to the police with the matter if things got worse. Bruce just avoided turning tricks around where he knew the man frequented. This plan went well until one night, when it was way later than Bruce liked to be out. It was about 4 in the morning by the time Bruce had managed to gather his clothes, grab the tip left on the kitchen table, and head back to ~~the~~ his flat.

At first he thought he was just being paranoid due to late night/early morning exhaustion and after a demanding client. But then he saw him again—the creep he'd been avoiding. Bruce tried to lose him for a few minutes. Maybe he could've if he weren't so tired. At least if he managed to make it home, Steve could file a police report. Steve was an upright citizen with a professional job. The neighbours loved him and he owned a gallery for the poor and disenfranchised. And he was dreamy. But about half a block away, the man caught up to him and pressed him up against the wall.

"No," he protested, trying to push the man away. But Bruce would swear at that moment the man had eight hands. He turned his head to duck away from an oncoming attack kiss.

"Don't say that, babe, I could see that you liked it the other night." He had both Bruce's hands above his head, and Bruce wasn't strong enough to break free.

"Stop it! I don't want you as a client." Bruce was afraid that this would end with him dead. Maybe the Green River Killer had come to New York from Seattle. Maybe he had a copycat. Still, he couldn't let himself get caught. He tried to knee the other man in the groin, only to find the man was digging into that leg with his fingernails.

"Now stop that, honey. You don't want to hurt me." Bruce's eyes widened as the man slipped a knife out of his pocket. Bruce finally met his eyes which were sickly full of lust. "Stop resisting—"

The man was cut off with a punch. Steve was standing there, looking worriedly at Bruce, carrying a whip of all things. The man stood up, looking a little shaken, but like he wanted a fight. But Steve cracked the whip—and where the hell had that come from?—and the man took off running. Steve gently reached down to Bruce and helped him to his feet from where he had unwittingly sunk to the ground. Slowly they made their way back to their place.

 

Steve was a bit worried when Bruce wasn't home when he was. Bruce's schedule was consistent. Every day he'd leave at five and would be back before Steve got home. Steve was often home rather late, as there were usually multiple clients per night. He must have checked Bruce's room three times. It felt like such a violation, but Steve was worried for him. He spent a good bit of time looking out their front window, watching the street for signs of the incredibly skinny Bruce. Steve almost missed him as he slipped through the street furtively. It didn't seem to matter, because ten seconds later a big, mean-looking man came pounding down the ally. Steve was not going to let Bruce get hurt. He grabbed his whip and ran outside. 

Steve ran outside, not even bothering with shoes. His blood was pounding in his ears as he heard "..want you as a client". The man had pushed Bruce up against a wall and Bruce was struggling. Steve had seen many people enjoy trying to get out of his restraints. This was nothing like that. Bruce was desperate. And so Steve decked him. Steve wanted to go to Bruce as he slid to the ground, but the man was getting up with a smirk.

"You know whores aren't exclusive."  
Steve refused to be taken aback. "He still gets a choice. Since you can't respect that, you need to leave."  
The man just kept pushing. "You got your chance at the goods, now I want mine."

Steve just seemed to remember the whip he had grabbed. He let it fall and then snapped the tip. While he normally relished the dominance of a faster-than-sound crack, he hated having to do it in this situation. But it did the trick. The man ran like his life depended on it, and Steve turned back to helping Bruce. He felt like he was almost picking up Bruce in his entirety. The man didn't weigh a thing. He dragged him up the stairs.

The warmth and safety of Steve locking the door seemed to perk him up. Bruce extricated himself from Steve. He was skittish, looked lost while he was boiling some water for tea. He didn't even let the water boil before pouring it into his mug. Steve knew he would bolt, so he looked him in the eye and said, "sit".

Looking back on this night, neither of them would be sure who was more surprised that Bruce actually sat on the couch, dejected. Steve wisely kept his distance. "Do you want to talk about what happened? Who was that man?"  
Bruce's mind was deflecting elsewhere. "Why do you have that whip?"  
Steve moved one of the kitchen chairs to face Bruce and sat in it. "Trade question for question?"  
Bruce nodded. "Why do you have that whip? Honest answer only."  
Steve gave one of his lopsided self-effacing grins. "It's for work. Who was that man?"  
"A former client of mine. What do you do for work?"  
Steve looked at his feet. Why be ashamed now? "I dominate people who want to be controlled. What sort of client?"  
Bruce's eyes widened as if to say 'You're not _really_ that dense, are you?'. "Steve. He was a john. Not the worst I've had, but definitely the creepiest."  
Neither of them moved for a minute. "You whip people for a living?" Bruce was incredulous.  
Steve looked up at that. They both had the remnants of a blush on their cheeks. To think they had danced around each other for so long. Suddenly the room burst into laughter. Bruce winced and Steve approached him to see f he was hurt. Well, it was only a few cuts and bruises. Still, Bruce lets Steve care for him as they chat in silence for their short rest of the night.

They make it work. That night Bruce sleeps in Steve's bed, wrapped up in the warmth and safety he brings. In the afternoon, when they wake, Bruce feels better than he has in a long time. They don't bring up either of their workplaces again for some time. But they do fall into a comfortable silence. Bruce never goes back to his own bed, and as the months pass, they become lovers.

One early evening in midwinter, Bruce's clients are all staying out of the cold, so he's home when Steve comes stomping in, wearing a disgusted look on his face. Bruce goes over to him and takes his briefcase and jacket, pulling Steve into a hug. "What's the matter, babe?"  
"I lost another client tonight because she wanted me to sleep with her. She was really rich, too."  
Bruce's mind raced with possibilities. "Call her back, ask if she still wants a hooker."  
Steve saw the calculations running through Bruce's mind. He's scared of them at first, but he works his way around to the same conclusion Bruce did. This could bring Bruce a lot of money in the long run if he played his cards right. He wouldn't have to turn tricks in the street.  
Steve picked up the phone and three hours later, Bruce was back, his wallet full of cash. "I need a bank account," was all he said.  
"What if we combined our efforts? What a business that could be," was Steve's reply.

A month later, and Bruce only took the extreme clients from Steve, those who wanted to beat on him and then fuck him into oblivion. Bruce knew they worried Steve, but he found he had an oddly fast healing rate similar to Steve's. He'd be fine. Most days, Bruce just kept the 'office' for Rogers & Banner. Their books were doing quite well. Their client list was substantially cushy. Bruce had taken over phone duties. They even were able to afford a third line for the business.

"Rogers & Banner, Banner speaking."  
"Ah, yes. Ms. Briana Whyte recommended your services to me." The voice sounded vaguely familiar, which was now standard for their clients, but still odd. It was a man, probably a bit older. Bri Whyte was a good, longstanding client of theirs. This was looking to be a go.  
"Did she explain the service types to you?"  
"You come in different flavours?" The man sounded surprised.  
"Mr. Rogers specialises in taking control and inducing pain. I deal in being used. Which one of us are you looking for?"  
"Rogers. Definitely Rogers. How does this work, then?"  
"Five-thousand per NDA, and you'll probably want both of us to sign. Ten k per hour, one hour minimum, billable in 20-minute chunks up to eight hours. Overtime after that. Money transferred before the night starts. Tip and any extraneous expenses, including travel, expected at the end of the night."  
"Done. I want 2 hours sometime next week, as soon as you have an opening."  
Bruce checked the calendar. "Would Wednesday evening at nine work for you, Mr. ?"  
The man laughed. "I'll let you know when you've signed the NDAs"  
"Those can be sent to Urban Arts Gallery." Bruce gave the address.  
"Perfect! Can I send a man over in 20 minutes?"  
Bruce didn't have anything else to do. "I'll see you then."

Bruce went downstairs, and pulled Steve aside. They eagerly waited, and fifteen minutes out, a sleek black car approached. The driver got out, carrying a folder and an envelope. They went to the gallery's back room. The man was big, muscular and fat. He handed the envelope over, and Bruce opened it, counting the bills out loud over the desk. One hundred hundred dollar bills were there. Bruce then took the NDAs. They were fairly standard. He nodded and Steve signed one and he signed the other. The man took them back and tucked them into his folder, as well as the card containing the bank information where the money would be deposited.

As he was leaving he turned. He handed Steve a blank business card with a handwritten address on it. "Mr. Stark will see you next Wednesday at 9, then." And he was gone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Steve dominates Tony.

Steve swallows thickly as he turns onto the road the house should be on, according to the tiny rectangle. He was well dressed. One had to be when you were going to ~~meet~~ _dominate_ Tony freaking Stark. This man may or may not be his richest customer yet, but he was, by far, his most famous one. He understood why a man like Tony Stark would want his services, but he was constantly amazed at how many clients he had. He took a few deep breaths to focus himself as he parked in the gigantic driveway, and put on his professional face. He schooled a smile that came over him as he got his bag. Tonight was going to be _fun_.

Tony Stark was a mess. He had been a mess for a little over a year now. One year and one week ago, not that he's counting, Pepper had uncovered a plot that Obidiah Stane had been selling weapons to extremists overseas and that he had specifically paid a group of them to kill him after his weapons demonstration in Afghanistan. One year and 6 days ago, Tony Stark was supposed to have gotten on a plane to Afghanistan so he could do a weapons demonstration. Instead, Obidiah had been arrested, tried, and convicted, Tony had stayed safely in the States, and Tony had completely flipped the mission of Stark Industries on its head overnight, investing in clean energy. And during that entire time, Tony, CEO of Stark Industries, had been a man in control.

It was exhausting. He'd taken to drinking his way through the night. It was the only way he was able to think of getting his mind to shut down. He'd had a second wake-up call when Pepper threatened to leave him a week and a half ago. Tony asked, begged her to give him two weeks to find a solution, to figure things out. She agreed, not wanting to leave him, but not being able to handle it if he kept up how he had been going.

This was something Tony didn't know how to fix. He didn't want to see a mental health counsellor, because he didn't want his brain picked apart. He just needed some release. That was what the drinking had given him, right? He didn't have an answer. Nothing was going to change if he didn't change it. So, he stopped drinking. Which is how he found himself over by the cooler of nonalcoholic beverages at a much more low-end charity than he was used to, bending down to get a very pregnant Bri a soda, which she most gracefully accepted.

"So I know you're not pregnant. I can't believe it, the famous Tony Stark, not drinking."  
"Y'know, funny story, that's what people do when their girlfriends threaten to leave them." He didn't want to be having this conversation, and he guessed that made him a bit fidgety. Which she caught onto like the sharp-minded lawyer she was.  
"But you were drinking for a reason."  
"You ever get that feeling where you just need to let go, have your mind go do something else for awhile?"

She positively beamed at him. "I have just the thing for you." He raised an eyebrow, wondering what she could have for him in her purse. But she pulled out a business card and handed it to him. It was simple, reading only 'Rogers & Banner' with a phone number underneath. "Call them. Domination services, no sex or drugs. Use my name, and they'll take care of you." She smiled and wandered off, leaving a flabbergasted Tony Stark.

He had called them five days ago and he had an appointment tonight. He was nervous and excited. He had no idea what to expect. He'd done some online research into being dominated, but he had found that every professional was different and, well, he was a bit excited he didn't know how this would go. He'd cleared the house out for the night, telling even Happy to go home, with clear orders he was not to interrupt at any cost, consequence be damned. He promised that the electronic system would be plenty to protect him, even though he'd disabled Jarvis from being able to respond to anything going on inside the house after 8.30. He sat and paced eagerly in the lobby starting at quarter of. When he heard the gate buzz, it took him all of 1.2 seconds to press the button that would open them.

Steve entered the house impressed by the reaction time Mr. Stark had displayed at letting him it. He'd had clients who had waited five minutes or more, their guilty consciences or something weighing on them. He put on a business smile and held out his hand, "Good evening, Mr. Stark."  
They shook. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Rogers, please, call me Tony."  
"Call me Steve, then." This part was always almost comical. As if this were any other business meeting. "I assume between Ms. Whyte and Mr. Banner, you were given the run down of what will happen here, but I'd like to go over it again."

Tony for some reason thought the man would be older. But he was very young, only in his mid-late twenties. Not that he acted it. He nodded to a chair, taking a seat across from it. "Please, go on." It was the most exciting business meeting he could remember in a long time.  
"As you know, I provide domination services. What this means is that for a certain length of time I will be in charge and you will do what I ask. We can play out something you have in mind or you can let me make those decisions. We will put parameters in place beforehand so that you will feel safe. The ground parameters are as follows: 1) I am not here in any sexual capacity, although you are free to get as aroused as you want, I will not be sexually touching your genitalia. 2) I will not use mind-altering drugs on either you or myself. 3) I will leave your bank accounts and other property unharmed. And 4) this is entirely consensual. You will have a 'safeword' which, if said, will stop the proceedings immediately. Any other word will have no effect on the state of the scene. I have a consent form that I need signed from you that lays out these rules and any others that we negotiate. Any questions?"  
"So if I say stop, but not the safeword?"  
"You're just being disobedient."

Tony took a barely a moment to agree to the conditions. "That sounds excellent. What is my safeword going to be?"  
"Anything you want that won't come up often in natural speech."  
"Afghanistan."

"Very well." Steve took the folder of documents out of his briefcase, took out a consent form and filled in 'Afghanistan' with his neat handwriting in the blank reserved for safewords. He handed it over.  
Tony knew he should look over it more carefully, but a cursory glance told him it had laid those things out in pretty much the same language Steve had used. Tony signed and dated it and handed it back.  
"We can start now or in five minutes." He puts the paper in the folder and the folder in the briefcase.  
"Now, so I don't loose my nerve."  
Steve is all smiles again. "Lead me to your bedroom, Tony."  
"This way." 

Tony walks to his room steadily, nervous and excited all at the same time. He gets to his room and doesn't know what to do. Steve stands there a moment, taking everything in with those sharp eyes. Tony isn't sure he can do this. Actually, he knows he can. Tony Stark can do anything. But he's not here to be complacent. So he goes over to the bar for a drink. He's not surprised when Steve speaks up.

"Mr. Stark, I thought I told you no mind-altering drugs."  
"Half a drink isn't going to do anything to me."

Steve would be lying if he said this weren't half the fun. His voice is very steady as he lays out his ultimatum. "Those were the terms of my being here. You can put the drink down or I will leave right now, and keep the money as forfeit."

Tony puts down the drink.  
Steve smiles. "That's better. Now, I was hoping it wouldn't come to this," yes he was, "but I'm going to have to punish you for that infraction. You agreed to follow my rules." He sits on Stark's couch. "Over my lap."  
"No."  
"Mr. Stark."  
"I told you, call me Tony."  
"Mr. Stark, this is your second of three warnings."  
"Make me."

Steve gets up and picks Tony up quite easily. Tony is wide-eyed and too stunned to say anything. Steve sits back on the couch and calmly places Tony over his lap, ass up. "Now, do you want to take your pants and underwear down so I can spank your bum, or do I need to do that too?"

Tony meekly pushes his pants down far enough to expose his rear.

"Good boy. You get 15 spanks for disobeying my direct order." Steve rubs his hand over Tony's smooth behind in anticipation. "Count them." Steve takes his hand away and immediately brings it down hard.  
Tony cries out, "One."

Steve is very happy at his reaction. He repeats the process, rubbing Stark's bottom for a moment before delivering the next blow, waiting for Stark to count the next four. Five through ten are much quicker. The only reason Steve slows down for number eleven is because Tony is having trouble getting the number out.

"I told you to count them, Mr. Stark."  
"T-ten. Please stop."  
"Are you telling me what to do, Mr. Stark."  
He hung his head. "No, sir." Steve liked that attitude.  
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to extend your spanking by ten for that infraction." He knew he'd judged correctly when Tony shivered in anticipation. His hand rained down again.  
"Eleven." The rest of the spanking went very smoothly. Steve could see Tony start to relax.

Steve gently tipped Tony onto the ground. "You may pull up your underwear, but I want you to remove the rest of your clothing and crawl over to the bed and get on it."  
"You're not gonna carry me there, too?"  
"Are you giving me lip, Mr. Stark?"  
He hung his head. "No sir." Tony quickly stripped his clothes off and crawled a bit unsteadily to the bed, where he lay on his stomach, presumably so not to feel his red ass as much. Steve looked through his briefcase.  
"What've you got in there? Is it perverse enough to please the Marquis de Sade? Do you enjoy taking it downtown and shocking all the little children?"  
"I thought you were finished giving me lip."  
"Apparently not."  
Steve rolled his eyes, but just took out his whip.  
"I need you to stay very still now, Mr. Stark. I'm going to whip that mouth right off you." Steve brings the whip down with a crack, leaving a very light mark.  
"I hope not literally, Mr. Rogers."  
Steve brings the whip down again, another light touch.  
"That's not an answer." But his protests are weaker than before.  
Steve makes a third light touch with the tail. Tony groans, but doesn't say a word.

"Very good, Tony. Now turn over while I get out the next toys out." Steve takes out a candle and holder. He lights it, then carefully coils the whip and returns it to the briefcase. He takes out another bottle, and asks, "Your bar has ice?" Tony just nods. Steve goes over and finds the bucket and fills it.  
"I'm going to decorate you now. All you need to do is lay there and take it." Tony actually groans at that. His eyes have fallen closed, and his cock is beginning to stir. Steve isn't surprised. It often happens.

Steve takes the candle in one hand and drips it in a pattern over Tony's lower chest. He squirms and wiggles and makes the most precious yelps, but he's doing okay. Steve puts the candle down when it needs to burn some more. With one hand, he peels away the soft red wax. With the other, he puts ice over the warm red spots of skin. He leaves half the cubes sitting there as he puts more wax on the midsection of his chest. He puts the candle down again, peeling the wax and laying down ice. Once more, and there are red splats replaced by ice and Tony is just shivering. But he's not talking or complaining. Steve blows out the candle and runs a hand through Tony's hair.

"How are you feeling?"  
"C-cold, sir."

Steve smiles, and picks up the ice bucket. "Well, we'll have to fix that now." He slides the ice off Tony back into the bucket. He makes sure to get as much excess water off as he can. "In fact, I brought just the thing to warm you up."

Steve is pleased, though, that now Tony's dick is positively straining to get out of his boxer-briefs.

Steve takes the warming gel and starts to massage Tony's chest. He works his way from his abdomen to his shoulders, then down his arms. He rubs and massages, working in the warming gel until Tony is starting to sweat. He's so very aroused and out of his mind, making the most exquisite whimpers.

Steve takes out two mini cups when he's done with the warming massage. He dips them in the ice water. And then, with Tony unsuspecting, he tips them over onto Tony's nipples. Tony screams and convulses, coming hard into his underwear.

Tony opens his eyes lazily and grins at Steve. His voice is soft and maybe a bit sore. "Thanks. Uh, I'll call you if I need you again?"  
Steve smiles and nods. "Are you going to be okay if I leave?"  
Tony nods, wiping his wet eyes. "I'm really, really good right now. About to fall asleep, I think. You were amazing."  
Steve quietly and quickly packs his things. "Thank you. Pleasure doing business with you, Tony."

Steve stops by the table on his way out. He picks up the bills laid there as a tip and in its place puts a bottle of soothing cream for his ass and his business card. On his way back home to Bruce, he doesn't bother hiding his satisfied smile.


End file.
